


Faith, Hope, and Rememberance - Dangar Finds His Hero

by Rakshi



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Original Characers - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-09
Updated: 2011-12-09
Packaged: 2017-10-27 03:22:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rakshi/pseuds/Rakshi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is 300 years since Frodo sailed into the West and in most of the Shire his deeds and life have long since been forgotten. But one determined Hobbit refuses to let his story fade away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faith, Hope, and Rememberance - Dangar Finds His Hero

Dangar Underhill carefully sipped at his steaming cup of tea and then leaned back in his chair, sighing with satisfaction. “Ahhh!” He sipped again, looking thoughtfully around him. The afternoon sun danced off the polished wooden walls and shelves of the Hobbiton Annex Mathom House creating a golden sheen that served to intensify Dangar’s sense of well-being. He’d spent all morning buffing the walls and shelves and had been looking forward to afternoon teatime when he knew the sun would show off his efforts in their best, most beautiful, light.

The Hobbiton Annex had been completed some ten years ago. Before then, Dangar had worked with his father in the stately old Mathom House which proudly graced the tallest hill in the town of Michel Delving. While the Hobbiton Annex was still under construction, Dangar was made Assistant Curator under Chief Curator Baridoc Proudfoot. He was thrilled with the promotion and eager to move to Hobbiton to begin living as a single gentlehobbit in his very own hole.

He was not sorry to leave the Michel Delving Mathom House behind, for it was in a sad (and seemingly irreversible) state of disarray. It had become dusty, dank, and horribly overcrowded. Papers both important and unimportant were mixed together and piled in disorganized heaps. Record books tip-tilted against each other, and many artifacts had become permanently separated from the records that identified them.

For years Dangar’s father, Lothagar Underhill, had worked diligently trying to categorize the contents of the Michel Delving Mathom House to no avail. For three centuries it had been unceremoniously crammed with artifacts, papers, records, items, and certificates of every description. Many of these items were of no historical importance whatsoever and were only in the Mathom House in the first place because the hobbits who donated them couldn’t bear to throw them away.

Recordkeeping had been lax when done at all, and in spite of Lothagar’s best efforts, the Mathom House remained a confused and dusty shambles. Everyone agreed that there were probably priceless hobbit treasures buried somewhere in the hodgepodge, but no one other than the hard-working Lothagar and his son ever took the time to search through the rubble.

Hobbiton aristocracy, consisting mainly of the prodigious Gardener family, many of whom lived in the town’s grandest hobbit-hole, Bag End, were fearful that records pertaining to Hobbiton in general, and to their family in particular, would be lost among the confusion in Michel Delving. Owing in no small part to their influence, items relevant to Hobbiton were laboriously searched out, painstakingly dusted off, and hauled forty miles to the newly constructed Hobbiton Annex for display and storage.

While a young man in his pre-tweens, Dangar had made innumerable trips between the two Mathom houses. His small pony ambled again and again down the road from Michel Delving pulling a wagon filled with precious artifacts and papers. Even now, ten years later, heavily laden carts pulled by sturdy ponies still bore items related to Hobbiton and its history all the way from Michel Delving to the Hobbiton Annexes back door. And each day Dangar sipped his morning tea in the bulging storage room while opening these containers and sorting carefully through their contents. Many unopened boxes were stacked throughout the large storage area, but Dangar refused to be rushed. He was determined that the Hobbiton Annex Mathom House not suffer the same fate as its predecessor and worked hard to keep it neat, tidy, and well organized.

As each box was opened, the items within were entered into the record book in Dangar’s precise handwriting, appropriately labeled, and then dated. Once an item had been documented, Dangar either put it on a shelf for display, consigned it to a secondary area to be rotated into a display position in due time, or disposed of entirely.

Dangar felt a deep and abiding affection for the Shire and for its history. He was happy that Chief Curator Proudfoot was often absent, for it gave him the chance to spend more time in the Annex doing the work he loved. To him it was a safe haven for mementos that reflected Hobbiton’s past. Sitting within its quiet walls, he could sense the presence of the gentlehobbits whose papers and artifacts filled each shelf. He felt he owed it to them to see that their possessions were well cared for and skillfully displayed.

Pondering those hobbits often brought to mind his own family history, a history which to Dangar’s thinking was woefully incomplete. His father was quietly unassuming and of small stature even for a hobbit. He detested notoriety, and was more than a little embarrassed by Shire-wide rumors of unusual and unhobbit-like behavior in his family’s distant past. Lothagar was grateful to Frako Boffin, a remote grandparent, who had left Hobbiton to move first to Waymeet, and then to Michel Delving in order to pursue a career with the newly instigated Shire Postal Service. Hobbiton was a hotbed of rumors concerning their family, and Lothagar was relieved to be living some distance away from the source of this ancient blight on their reputation.

But in spite of the higher standards imposed by Michel Delving society, certain of Lothagar’s relatives had continued to demonstrate extremely unusual behaviors. His grandfather, Longo, had unaccountably changed his name from the well-respected Boffin to the less reputable Underhill. Longo was fifty at the time, an age when all agreed he should have shown better sense. His wife, Poppy Brandybuck, was horrified at the name change and insisted on referring to herself as Brandybuck-Boffin until the day she died.

Like his grandmother, Poppy, Lothagar deeply regretted his grandfather’s decision. Underhill was a name closely linked to those regrettable family rumors of oddness, eccentricity, and even madness. The mousey, self-effacing Lothagar never understood why his grandfather had so burdened the family, but most Shire-folk found this odd behavior completely predictable. Both Longo and his father, Fredego Boffin, had often been a trial to their long-suffering kin.

Fredego, for instance, had decided to wed Pansy Boffin a very, VERY distant cousin. But distant though the connection had been, it created a scandal among Michel Delving hobbits and rekindled the old rumors of oddness within the family.

Fredego cared not a whit for their opinions. He was deeply smitten with his beautiful Pansy and they married almost at once, over the strenuous objections of both families. The local muckrakers predicted swift and certain sorrow as retribution for their transgression. But Fredego and Pansy, much to the annoyance of the local gentry, remained intensely happy and prosperous to the end of their days.

Dangar was deeply curious about the rumors connected to his family and as a lad had often questioned his old Gaffer, Olo, for anecdotes about their kinfolk. Olo told him all he knew, but unfortunately his story was a short one. “’Tis true,” he told his grandson, “The Underhill name is said to be connected with scandalous behaviors. But,” Olo added in a mysterious whisper, “there’s also talk of a great hobbit hero in our family’s past - a hero whose name and deeds have long been forgotten.”

Dangar begged his Gaffer for additional information about this ancient hero, but Olo knew no more. Dangar had spent years poring over documents in both Mathom Houses hoping against hope to come across a misplaced paper or record which spoke about the hobbit-hero who lurked in his family’s past. There was little information available.

He had found clues that he believed spoke of this ancient ancestor. Barely legible stories from ancient texts and a few old songs that were popular with tavern patrons throughout the Shire spoke of a great evil that had once threatened all of Middle-earth and of one small hobbit who had challenged that evil. But the hobbit was not mentioned by name.

Undeterred, Dangar examined every book he could find that pertained to Hobbiton history and searched diligently for any mention of ancient Shire-born heroes. There was little available. Written materials from that time were scarce and Shire-folk, it seemed, didn’t go in much for heroics. It was unusual if they even left their home Farthings. There were exceptions, of course. But these tales seemed unrelated to Hobbiton folk or were vague rumors connected to persons who were, seemingly, held in low regard.

And yet now and then Dangar would still find traces - a few passages here and there that spoke of ancient times when hobbit heroes fought against a dark shadow. These times were rare, however, and his search revealed nothing that would be considered real proof.

This absence of solid information coupled with the scorn that Shire residents seemed to feel toward those who dared to become involved with events outside their own locale left Dangar feeling deeply frustrated. Yet in spite of this he was more determined than ever to seek out any story which celebrated Shire history. He was given scant support but he persevered, nonetheless, believing that his goal was worth any effort.

He was a gentle, shy, sincere little hobbit with a quiet nature. He had inherited Lothagar’s talent for organization and detail, though he tended to be much more open-minded. And he possessed a scholar’s mind, thanks in no small part to his father who had taught Dangar his letters and encouraged his love of reading.

Now, as the afternoon sun dipped towards the horizon, he rose, and walked to the tiny sink in the Mathom House office. He glanced out the window as he discarded his used leaves and washed his teacup anticipating the feeling of chill Yuletide air that would sting his face as he began the twenty-minute walk to Bywater and his small hobbit-hole. He wrapped himself in his threadbare cloak and tied his scarf snuggly around his neck before stepping outside, and then locked the Annex door behind him.

The Annex was located on a small rise on the northern side of what was universally known as “The Hill”. Dangar’s walk home led him south through Hobbiton village, then slightly east toward Bywater. His hobbit-hole lay between the two villages, nestled amidst some tall beech trees.

It was already dark in Hobbiton, and overhead countless stars dotted the nighttime sky like tiny diamonds. Dangar smiled to himself as he strode down the lane toward Hobbiton village. It was several weeks before the official start of the Yule festivities, and he was eager for them to begin. He especially looked forward to the mouth-watering smells that would waft their way to his nostrils as he walked through town on his way home. The scent of evergreen combined with the equally appealing smell of Yule log spices and baking cookies would be ever-present in the evening air during this festive time of year.

Wandering slowly southward, he passed the lane that trailed up a slight rise to Bag End, ancient home of the Gardener family. As he passed the gate Dangar averted his eyes, for even seeing the entranceway caused his heart to ache with sorrow. He had visited Bag End many times. Rory Gardener, middle son of the current Gardener generation, had long been his best friend and closest companion.

Rory was one of the Shire’s most infamous young sparks. Famous for his easy laugh and sharp wit, he was a favorite with hobbit lasses for miles around. He loved fine clothes and was careful about his appearance. He was an intelligent and good-natured hobbit who was always ready for fun or a spirited prank. His love of stories and songs was well-known throughout the Shire and in Hobbiton in particular. He was often asked to sing or tell tales when visiting the local inns since he had a fine voice and had memorized many of the ballads and fables that were popular with the local residents.

Following Rory’s lead had often gotten Dangar into trouble while they were in their tweens and stodgy hobbit-elders had often shaken their fingers in the faces of the two young hobbits owing to their love of mischief.

Lothagar disapproved of the friendship, and had tried repeatedly to discourage Dangar from spending time with the young Gardener lad. “He comes from a fine family, and no mistake,” Lothagar told his son. “But he’s a scamp and known for trouble-making! You’d best steer clear if you know what’s good for you. Besides,” Lothagar had added sternly, “the Gardeners are far above our station in life. You’d best stick to friends of your own kind.”

But in spite of his father’s warnings, Dangar remained loyal to his friend. Even now when they were older and Rory had moved from Bag End into his own hobbit-hole, they spent many an evening together sipping ale at the Green Dragon or at another of the local inns.

During these outings Dangar usually watched from a quiet corner as Rory captivated the patrons with the songs and tales he loved, or danced a merry Springle-ring with the hobbit lasses. Dangar didn’t engage in fun-loving flirtations the way Rory did, and he fervently wished that his friend would be content to simply sit with him and talk. He knew this was highly unlikely given Rory’s genial high spirits, but he followed Rory to the inns just the same. He loved spending time with his friend and preferred the role of quiet observer to sitting home alone.

Moreover, in the past few years he had become painfully aware of the ever more passionate feelings that flooded him anytime he and Rory were together. It was more than the friendly affection they had shared in their youth, more even than the closeness they shared now as friends. Just a glance from Rory’s laughing hazel eyes left Dangar feeling weak-kneed and helpless. An aching sense of longing filled him when they were apart, and his heart always leapt with gladness when he saw Rory meandering past the beech trees on his way to visit Dangar’s small hobbit-hole.

I love him, Dangar thought miserably. I know it can come to naught, but I love him nonetheless. He sighed as he slowly ambled down the quiet path. Da would never approve.

In spite of Lothagar’s views on the subject, such relationships were not unknown in hobbit society. They were generally accepted, and there had been, through the years, more than a few long-term relationships among hobbits of the same gender. But Dangar tried not to think of such things, let alone hope for them. Rory had made his preference for hobbit lasses clear enough, and Dangar would have died before he revealed his true feelings. He felt sure such a revelation would result in painful rejection and possibly cost him the friendship that was so dear to him.

His entire world, in fact, revolved around his job at the Hobbiton Annex Mathom House, his friendship with Rory, and the bit of garden that surrounded his yard. It never failed to bring a warm and peaceful feeling to his heart whenever he knelt in the grass to plant and tend his flowers. He grew snapdragons, sunflowers, and nasturtiums, along with a particular favourite of his, a sweet-smelling ivy which partially covered one side of his hobbit-hole.

His garden helped to ease the sense of bleak despair that thoughts of Rory created within him. At moments like those, when he felt so desperately lonely, he would make his way outside and tend his garden, taking solace in the beauty of his flowers and of their need for him. He could speak to them of his feelings, hopes, and dreams, though he was careful to speak softly at such times. Dangar knew that the old rumors of oddness associated with his family would be quickly stirred up if anyone heard him murmuring over his blossoms. Yet, much though he feared this outcome, he continued to talk to them. They comforted him and left him feeling less alone.

The time spent in his garden of late, however, had given him more distress than comfort. Several of his precious plants had begun to develop alarming symptoms. Seemingly overnight the leaves had become spotted and covered with a greenish blight. This affliction seemed to be particularly prevalent on his ivy. Some sort of unknown disease had invaded his garden and he was frantic with worry. Again and again he asked himself what could have caused this disturbing situation, but could think of nothing. His compost pile was his sole fertilizer, and it contained only the purest materials.

He spent several days attentively bending over his plants and carefully dosing them with medicinal teas that were said to be helpful in such cases but finally stopped in despair when the teas seemed to bring no improvement whatsoever. Finally, desperate to find a cure, he made the long walk to Waymeet to consult Azaelia Bolger, who was celebrated as the Shire’s foremost herbalist. Her potions and powders had cured ailing gardens not only in all four Farthings of the Shire but in far away Breeland as well.

He showed her a sickly ivy leaf that he had carried with him, and after examining it for several minutes, Mistress Bolger nodded and turned to her worktable. As Dangar watched, she poured several different liquids into a bottle then added some powder from a jar sitting at her elbow. “We’ll have your garden fixed up in no time, Dangar,” she said cheerfully. “A dash of this, a dab of that, and next thing you know, this ivy’ll be fit as a fiddle again!” She shook the bottle and the liquid inside turned a deep, bubbling green. “That’ll do it!” Azaelia told him triumphantly.

Dangar walked slowly home, carrying the precious potion in both hands with the directions for its use tucked safely away in his vest pocket. But no matter how carefully he followed those directions, the potion brought only minimal improvement to Dangar’s ailing plants.

A fortnight after Dangar’s trip to Waymeet, Rory wandered past the Beech trees to visit him and found his friend kneeling on the ground, the bottle of potion in one hand and a spoon in the other.

“Dangar?” Rory asked, kneeling beside him and laying a hand on his shoulder. “Dangar? Are you alright?”

“Oh, Rory,” Dangar replied, his voice thick with tears. “I’m most dreadfully frightened. My flowers are dying! My beautiful flowers and ivy are all dying and I don’t know what to do.”

“Come inside,” Rory said, lifting Dangar to his feet. “I’ll fix you a cup of tea. It shan’t help your flowers if you make yourself ill as well.”

He led Dangar to the study and settled him on the settee. He put the kettle on for tea and was soon pressing a steaming cup into Dangar’s hand. Normally, this kind of attention from Rory would have given Dangar great happiness, but he was too upset about the condition of his flowers to revel in Rory’s attentive behavior.

“What shall I do?” Dangar asked. “Rory, your family is famous for gardening! It’s your name, after all. What can I do to help my flowers?” He looked appealingly at Rory, who sighed and shrugged.

“Dangar, I’m sorry, I’m not much of a gardener. No one in the family goes in for it anymore. That was the old days.”

Dangar’s eyes filled with tears and Rory quickly sat down next to him and patted his hand. “Don’t fret, Dangar. I’ll ask my Da and see if he knows of a cure for this blight. He may have hidden away an old book or recipe that’ll help. Be sure I’ll come back straight away if anyone in the family knows of a treatment.”

Dangar nodded sadly and warmed his hands around his cup of tea, nearly inconsolable. He knew of nothing more he could do to save his sickly plants, and he couldn’t imagine what he would do if he lost the healing and comfort of his beloved garden.

The next day, he sat on the storage room floor, his heart so filled with anxiety about his plants that he could barely focus on the box he was unpacking. It contained many old papers some of which were nearly legible. Sitting up straighter, Dangar peered curiously at a letter which was less faded than the rest. It appeared to be from Buckland!

How odd! he thought. I don’t often see papers from Buckland. Whatever could this mean? The letter had been written in the year 3039 and appeared to be from one Dringo Boffin. It spoke, in part, of a great honor that had been given him.

> _I have this day been made 2nd Assistant to Meriadoc Brandybuck, Master of Buckland. I am to accompany his party to a great meeting at the Brandywine Bridge which is to be attended by King Elessar of Gondor._

 

Dangar lowered the letter and gazed thoughtfully out the window. He wondered if Dringo Boffin could possibly be related to him through his very distant cousin Olo Boffin, for whom his grandfather had been named. The rest of Dringo’s letter was unreadable. The words were faded and smudged beyond recognition. Reluctantly, Dangar set it aside and began to pore over the other papers, hoping to discover more about this meeting and the hobbits who attended it. “King Elessar!” he whispered aloud.

The whole Shire knew the legend of the great King Elessar, of Gondor. He had made the Shire a free land under the protection of the Northern Scepter and had long ago issued the edict stating that men could not enter there, an edict that was rarely invoked in these more modern times when men and hobbits were on friendlier terms.

Buried in the box amid many scraps of paper, which consisted of old receipts for various purchases and one very smudged grocery list, Dangar found another letter. As he read it he felt his heart begin to pound with excitement.

The letter spoke of a meeting at the Brandywine Bridge and of stories Dringo had told about that long-ago gathering. Evidently the letter had been written by one of Dringo’s grandchildren.

> _My Gaffer told us that he listened to stories told around the campfire by Meriadoc Brandybuck, Hobbiton Mayor Samwise Gamgee, and the Thain, Peregrin Took. Mr. Brandybuck is the Master of Buckland, you know, and my Gaffer said that he oft told stories of the Rohan folk who live in foreign parts._
> 
> _He overheard Mr. Brandybuck and the Hobbiton Mayor, Mr. Gamgee, talk most lovingly about a Frodo Baggins, who was not at the gathering. My Gaffer said he’d heard stories while in his tweens about this Frodo Baggins fellow, mainly about his oddness and his many unexpected disappearances from the Shire, the last of which happened when my Gaffer was a mere lad of 22. It’s said that Mister Baggins never returned after this last disappearance. A most mysterious person, my dear!_

His hands shaking with excitement, Dangar carefully laid this letter on top of the other. “Baggins!” he said breathlessly. He was sure that the name “Baggins" was connected with his family. He’d heard his father mention it in undertones which indicated that the name was not held in high regard. He wondered if his Gaffer could shed any light on this connection, then peered more closely at the box which had held these ancient treasures.

It was not dated, but from its condition Dangar guessed that it came from one of the oldest parts of the Michel Delving Mathom House. “These boxes could be from as far back as the Fourth Age!” he said in wonder. “We know almost nothing about that time!”

The rest of his day was spent painstakingly sorting through every box, crate, and bag in the storage room and arranging them according to their age as best as Dangar could fathom it. The more weathered a box or crate looked, the quicker Dangar was to haul it to his newly designated "special area". By evening he was completely worn out, but he had added some dozen or so boxes to the one which had contained Dringo Boffin’s letter.

He paused for a moment, pondering these containers with a dawning sense of satisfaction, and then drew in a quick breath, his pleasure suddenly turning to shock and shame. His flowers! He’d been so lost in his findings that he hadn’t given them a thought all day! He wondered if Rory had discovered anything that could help them and decided to stop in to see him on the way home to inquire.

Rory lived at Number Three Bagshot Row, a cozy hole that had been home to many hobbits through the ages. Rory thought it a bit small and quaint, but his Mam wanted him close by and the Row was just a quick skip from The Hill and Bag End. Less than five minutes after leaving the Annex, Dangar was knocking politely on Rory’s door.

“Hello, Dangar,” Rory said, taking his arm and leading him into the hallway. “Do hang up your coat and sit a spell.”

“Thank you,” Dangar told him, hanging his coat and scarf one of the several hooks which were conveniently part of Rory’s entranceway.

“How are you feeling?” Rory asked. “I was quite worried about you last night, you were so upset.”

“Rory, did you ask your Da? Did he know of any cure for my flowers?”

Rory sighed. “Sit down, Dangar” he said quietly, pulling out a kitchen chair.

“Rory…” Dangar began.

But Rory gave no response other than to take his friend’s arm and guide him to the chair. Dangar sank into it gratefully, but immediately turned questioning eyes to Rory. “Please tell me,” he begged.

Rory sighed and sat opposite him. “Dangar, I asked my Da and my Mam. They knew of nothing… nothing that you’re not already doing at any rate. After dinner my Mam even went down below into some of the old storage holes beneath Bag End’s big bedroom and looked for any kind of book or paper that might talk about gardening or healing ailing plants.”

Dangar glanced at him expectantly… hopefully.

“She found nothing, my friend.”

Dangar drew in a trembling breath and for a long time there was silence. Then Rory unexpectedly reached across the table and took his hand. “I’m not done trying, Dangar. I’m going to ask my Aunt Marigold from up Overhill way. They know a lot about plants and such up there and she’ll be visiting Mam next week.”

Dangar tried to express his gratitude, but Rory’s kindness coupled with the feeling of his warm, strong fingers made words nearly impossible.

“Find anything new in the boxes today?” Rory asked, smiling the crooked smile that made Dangar’s heart suddenly melt.

“Oh, Rory!” Dangar said excitedly. “I found a letter!” As he spoke, he carefully tugged his hand away from Rory’s grasp. The contact was making him warm all over and causing his heart to beat wildly in his chest.

He told his friend about Dringo Boffin’s letter and the subsequent communication from his granddaughter. “I’ve lined up the boxes by age as best I can.” Dangar told him. “Tomorrow I'll start to look through them one at a time to try to find out more.”

Rory said nothing. He seemed lost in thought and stared past Dangar into the hallway. “Rory? Is something amiss?”

“No,” Rory murmured quietly. “Nothing’s amiss. ‘Tis just that one of those names you mentioned… from that letter. What were they again?”

“Um… Meriadoc Brandybuck, who was Master of Buckland,” Dangar replied. “There was a Peregrin Took, who she said was the Thain! And a hobbit who was mayor… ermmmm.. Gamgee! That was it! Samwise Gamgee!”

Rory nodded slowly. “Samwise Gamgee,” he repeated in a low voice.

“Rory?”

“Well, Dangar, you of all hobbits should know about Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took… having such a love of Shire history and all.” Rory grinned at him. “You didn’t hear those names in your hobbit ancient history classes in school?”

“Of course!” Dangar exclaimed. “They led the army who fought the Battle of Bywater!

“The very same,” Rory told him. “They weren’t from Hobbiton, of course, so they’re given scant approval in these parts, but their statues are there at the center of Bywater just the same. Big as life and not a mile from your front door! Great heroes they were, ‘tis said. But, it’s the Gamgee name that interests me. I’ve heard that name, Dangar. I’ve heard someone in my family mention it.”

“Will you ask about it, Rory? I’d be most grateful.”

Rory nodded reassuringly. “I shall ask tomorrow, first thing.”

“There was another name too,” Dangar said, slowly. “Baggins. A Frodo Baggins. ‘Twas said he wasn’t at the great gathering, but that the others spoke of him in such a loving manner that Dringo was struck by it.”

“Frodo Baggins,” Rory said thoughtfully. “I’ve never heard the name that I recall.”

“I’m sure it’s connected with my family,” Dangar said, absently as he rose to leave, “though I can’t imagine how. I must ask my Gaffer. Thank you for your help, Rory.” He stood and walked toward the hall. “I must be off.”

“Shall we pay a visit to the Green Dragon tomorrow night?” Rory asked with a grin. “I’ve heard that there’s a wandering troop of minstrels visiting from over Frogmorton way… should be fine for dancing.”

Dangar nodded, wrapping his scarf around his neck. “Yes, to be sure. I’ll see you then.” He waved at his friend as he started down the Row toward the main path to Hobbiton, and then sighed. All the lasses there will be glad of it and no mistake, he thought sadly. Rory will dance ‘til he’s worn to a nubbin while I sit and watch feeling sad and altogether alone.

It was full dark by the time he reached home, but he wouldn’t eat or sleep until he had given his precious flowers another dose of Azaelia Bolger’s potion. “What’s doing this to you?” he whispered sadly as he poured the green liquid over his sickly plants. “Oh, how I wish you could tell me what to do!” The flowers and his beloved ivy drooped so despairingly that Dangar nearly wept. The green blight seemed be eating them away, and Dangar felt completely helpless to do anything to stop it.

He passed a fretful night, barely sleeping, and dosed his flowers with Azaelia’s mixture once again before leaving for the Annex in the morning. But even in the midst of his anxiety over his garden, his thoughts couldn’t help turning to the kindness and affection Rory had shown toward him lately. He still could feel the warm strength of Rory’s hand as it clasped his last night and wondered what such a demonstration might mean. “Probably meant nothing at all,” Dangar murmured aloud. “He was being kind to me, knowing I was upset and all.”

Arriving at the Annex, Dangar went straight to the storage room. Usually he began to unpack whichever boxes were most recently arrived, but not today. Today he went directly to the old and battered boxes that he had singled out yesterday. He looked through several of them but found nothing. Several pieces of paper had looked promising, and on one of them was scrawled the name “Gandalf” which he thought he recognized from old stories, but the rest of the paper was too faded to read, so he reluctantly set it aside.

He spent the day meticulously examining the contents of the boxes he’d set aside the day before. One by one he opened them, sorting their contents, always giving special attention to any papers that might hold clues to happenings in Hobbiton’s ancient past and to the hobbits who lived in those long-ago days. The afternoon shadows grew long outside the storage room window before Dangar looked up from his work. He’d found several relics which would make interesting additions to his showcases. But he found nothing pertaining to the matters which so fascinated him. His mind burned with longing to know the truth about these ancient times and people, and he was determined to keep looking until these truths revealed themselves.

The next box he opened contained only old, worn-out household articles. Dangar gazed at them in annoyance. He wanted diaries, papers, and above all… letters, not this pile of second-hand goods. Still, the box was seemingly from the time in question, so he examined each article one by one. An old pot. A worn and battered frying pan. Several small, tin boxes… all empty. And one old vase.

Sighing in disappointment, Dangar began to set the vase aside, when from the corner of his eye he spotted something odd. There was a paper wedged deep inside it, almost as if someone had hidden it there. Carefully, Dangar drew it out and unfolded it. The paper was in fairly good condition, perhaps protected by the dry interior of the vase, and the words were reasonably legible. It was a letter! Short, but written in a bold hand. He leaned his back against the box, and began to read.

> _My dearest love,_
> 
> _I know ‘til folly to write, you being so far away and all. But I am filled with sorrow and feel I shall die if I cannot reach out to you somehow, so I take pen in hand._
> 
> _‘Tis many long years since you went away, beloved. I still remember standing on the pier at the Grey Havens all through the long, dark night looking westward to where your ship disappeared. My heart was broken that day, my Frodo..._

 

Dangar sat up with a start. “Frodo!” he exclaimed, astonished. “Could it be? Eagerly, he turned back to the letter…

> _… and yet I knew ‘twas best that you go. I could not bear to see you suffer any longer. You’d done so much and gotten so little in return. It seemed only right that I who loved you best, be willing to let you go to where you could find peace at last. Could I love you and do less?_
> 
> _The Shire may not have shown you just honor, hero and savior that you were, but you are ever honored in the heart of he who loves you._
> 
> _Not a day has passed that my heart has not longed for you… and my eyes have not wept for the sight of you… and my body has not ached to hold you close to me. Just to hear your sweet voice would give all the joy I could ever hope to have._
> 
> _But I know ‘tis not to be._
> 
> _Little Frodo has grown to a fine strong Hobbit. He took the name of Gardener instead of Gamgee, since he has been named Gardener of the Hill. Elanor is married now and has gone to live in Westmarch. I miss her. I have lost so many that I love._
> 
> _But no loss grieves your Samwise more than the loss of the love that means everything to me. Perhaps that the evil Ring can do one thing which is good, for if all Ringbearers go into the West in time, perhaps, as you promised me, my time shall come too one day. And I shall be reunited with the love that is my whole life._
> 
> _I send you blessings, my beloved._
> 
> _Forever,  
>  Your Samwise_

_  
_

_“_ Samwise!” Dangar cried, jumping to his feet! “Samwise Gamgee! Their name was changed to Gardener!” His whole body felt charged with excitement and joy. He felt sure he was coming closer to the answers that had so far eluded him. Then he stopped and glanced at the letter once again, sinking slowly back to the floor, seeing it - really seeing it – for the first time.

“They suffered so,” Dangar whispered, reading the letter again. “Frodo had to go away and leave him because being here somehow caused him great pain. He lost his love.”

Dangar read the letter several times, biting his lip against the tears that welled up in his soft brown eyes. “Oh, how dreadfully sad!” His heart ached for these hobbits who lived so long ago and who seemed to have felt so much love, and so much pain. “Hero,” Dangar whispered. “Samwise says here that Frodo was a ‘hero and savior’ but that no one honored him. How could this be?” He picked up the vase that had contained the love letter and examined it with care. It was a pale green vase, totally unremarkable except for one deep green leaf etched near the rim.

He rose to his feet, carefully setting the vase down and refolding the letter. The latter he placed it in his vest pocket, before walking quickly to the door. “I must speak to Rory!” he exclaimed, and for the first time in ten years, he closed the Annex early and dashed to Bagshot Row. “Rory!” he yelled, pounding on the round door to Number Three. “Rory, open up!”

After a moment a wide-eyed Rory opened the door and stared at him in alarm. “Dangar, whatever on Earth is wrong?”

“Rory!! I’ve found something about Samwise Gamgee! And Frodo, too!” He drew the letter from his pocket and thrust it at Rory. “Read this! I think this letter was written to the Frodo Baggins whom I told you of yesterday!”

Rory took the letter and read it while still standing in his foyer. Then the two walked into Rory’s study and sat on the settee facing each other.

“I’m very pleased for you, Dangar,” Rory said, handing the letter back.

“I think this Samwise may have been related to you!”

“You may be right,” Rory replied. “I talked with my Gammer up at Bag End yesterday after you left and she told me that the old tales say that the Gardeners were once called Gamgee. ‘Tis said a Gamgee was the first Gardner of the Hill.”

“Did she say anything else?” Dangar asked excitedly.

“No,” Rory said. “I’m afraid that’s all she knew, Dangar. And she said that this was only a legend handed down in the old tales.”

“But look, Rory! We have this letter! It must be true!”

“Perhaps,” Rory said quietly, and held out his hand. “Let me see the letter again.”

Dangar handed it to him and Rory scanned the letter thoughtfully. “They loved each other,” he murmured at last. “This Samwise fellow and the Baggins chap. They loved each other, seemingly.”

A hot blush rose on Dangar’s face. He lowered his eyes, hoping against hope that Rory hadn’t notice. He felt a dark fear muddy his stomach. Did Rory suspect how he felt? Would he hate him if he knew? “It seems they did,” he said softly. “Such things are not unheard of in the Shire.”

“No. They’re not.” Rory said quietly, handing the letter back. “But I’m not sure where all this can lead. All you have are some old letters and a few tales my Gammer told me. None of this proves anything. ‘Tis all just stories, Dangar. Stories from a time long past.”

Dangar stared at him silently, his brown eyes dark with sadness.

“Look, old chum,” Rory said, laying his arm about Dangar’s shoulder. “Shall we go the inn and have an ale? Things will all seem better once you’ve drunk some of the Dragon’s good brew and heard a bit of music. No point fretting about it any more today. Sun’s setting. Save it ‘til tomorrow. Save all sad things ‘til tomorrow.”

Dangar rose and shook his head. His hands were trembling, as much from Rory’s almost affectionate gesture as from the news he had gathered today. “I’m going to go home and tend my flowers,” he told Rory. “I’ll stop by tomorrow, perhaps.”

Rory nodded and showed Dangar to the door without saying any more. As Dangar donned his cloak, Rory sighed. “Goodnight, Dangar.”

Dangar looked up into Rory’s eyes, the eyes which usually danced with fun and merriment. They looked forlorn and his voice had seemed unusually downcast, especially for Rory. “Is something troubling you? Has all this talk of the past left you feeling sad?”

“No,” Rory said with a small smile, “It’s not that, Dangar. My Mam has been scolding me again about getting married. She insists that Flora Brownbottle would make a fine match and she wants to plan a wedding between me and Flora for the spring.”

Dangar swallowed hard. “Do – do you want to wed, Rory?” He felt his chest constrict with pain, and try though he might, he could not meet Rory’s eyes and studied the floor instead.

Rory lifted his hand, as though to touch Dangar’s arm then he slowly lowered it again. “Not really,” he replied unhappily. “But with Mam after me, I may have no choice.” He sighed again and took Dangar’s scarf from the hook. Handing it to him, he spoke sadly: “Have a good evening, my friend. I hope your garden improves.”

Dangar’s thoughts were a jumble as he wandered toward Hobbiton. Rory to wed? The very thought nearly broke Dangar’s heart. He wished so much that he was brave enough to speak to Rory about his own feelings. He felt sure it would do no good, but he choked with tears at the thought that Rory would marry without ever knowing how Dangar felt about him. And yet it seemed to Dangar that the love letter from Samwise Gamgee to Frodo Baggins had upset his friend. Perhaps Rory felt that such a relationship was not proper for well-bred gentlehobbits. “I wish I’d never shown it to him,” Dangar said sadly. “And oh, how I wish I had more courage!”

As the days moved slowly toward Yule, Dangar tried to keep hope alive in his heart. Hope that Rory would not wed. Hope that his beloved garden would improve. And hope that he would, at long last, find the answers about Hobbiton’s past. Again and again scraps of very old text from his boxes spoke of a great evil that had endeavored to consume Middle-earth, and again and again those same texts made vague references to heroes who fought to preserve their land. There was not enough information in any of these scraps to prove or disprove the existence of these heroes or confirm what they had done. But many of these accounts mentioned a certain: “Frodo Baggins, hobbit of the Shire”.

He had spoken to his Gaffer, Olo, who had been unable to shed much light on the name Baggins. He thought there were a few Baggins folk living in the Brokenborings a-way up in the North Farthing but had never met them himself.

He spoke to his father about the name during a visit to Michel Delving, but Lothagar was even less helpful. He had heard the name, but thought little of it.

“Yes,” Lothagar said, “there was some talk - never proven, mind you - that many generations ago our family had some vague connection to the name Baggins through our ancestor, Berylla Boffin. But to think that our family could be connected to such a scandalous person as this Frodo chap is ridiculous. Hobbit hero, indeed! There are no Baggins folk left in the Shire except perhaps a few way up north and I’m sure they’re not kin. ’Tis a name best left unspoken,” his father said sternly. “Rumors of ill tidings have always surrounded it. I heard so from my Gammer Brandybuck-Boffin and I believe her. You should stop chasing after these old tales from a time long past, Dangar.”

“But, Da,” Dangar protested, “maybe this Frodo was a hero. Maybe the rumors are wrong!”

“Where there’s smoke, there’s Old Toby,” Lothagar said, nodding sagely and quoting an ancient hobbit proverb. “You’d best keep your mind on your own business, young sir.”

Dangar pondered his father’s words as he made the long trip back to Hobbiton. He’d been raised to respect his elders, and though Lothagar was firm, he was also kind and loving. It hurt Dangar’s heart to know that his father neither approved of nor understood the way Dangar lived his life. To Lothagar, the things Dangar cared for so deeply were mere folly, and Dangar wished that he were not such a disappointment to his father.

Once at home, he examined his flowerbed anxiously. He continued to use Azaelia’s potion, and though his plants had not improved and had, indeed, grown steadily worse, the process of whatever disease had overtaken them seemed to have slowed.

Unfortunately, the same could not be said for Rory’s wedding plans. His engagement to Miss Flora Brownbottle from Little Delving was to be announced at the Yule celebration in Hobbiton’s town square with a wedding to follow in the spring.

Rory spent less time at the local inns now, and Dangar saw little of him as the time of his friend’s engagement drew near. When they did meet, Dangar was struck by how low-spirited Rory seemed. If questioned, he would murmur that all was well, but Dangar remained unconvinced. He yearned to speak - to open his heart to Rory, but he was afraid.

His desolation over Rory’s upcoming marriage had taken the heart out of him. Even the process of going through the aged boxes had lost its appeal. He burrowed through their contents now and then, but only rarely. And he had found nothing new in any of the contents he had examined.

On a late afternoon, near closing time, Dangar wandered to the storage area and listlessly began to go through the contents of one of the few remaining boxes in his special area. After digging through the contents for quite some time and finding nothing of real interest, he uncovered a letter which was faded but still fairly legible. His eyes grew bright with sudden interest when he realized that the missive spoke briefly of ancient Shire history and mentioned the hobbits whose names had become so dear to him.

The letter, according to the signature, was from a Marigold Grubb.

 

> _My dear,_
> 
> _Please believe me, it is folly to mention tales of the past as though they were real. My old Gammer Tunlley was married to one of the Took relations who actually lived in the Great Smials. She told me that rumors concerning this Frodo Baggins chap are pure rubbish. Yes, there are those who claimed he was a personage of some renown, an ancient hero if the stories are to be believed, but my Gammer said that yarns told about his deeds are naught but tall tales. Shire history reports quite accurately that it was Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took who were the real heroes. They saved the Shire, not this Baggins chap whoever he may be._

 

Dangar lowered the letter and looked thoughtfully into space. “How can this be?” he whispered aloud. “Rory’s relative, this Samwise person, was evidently quite renowned. The other letter, the one from Dringo’s granddaughter, says he was Mayor of Hobbiton. And he says that Frodo was both hero and savior, though he was not honored for it.” He sighed and continued sit quietly with the letter in his hands, his brown eyes sad. At last he murmured: “’Tis wrong that the hero who saved us all is forgotten. A hero should be honored in the land he fought to save.”

He returned to Marigold’s letter…

> _The old tales say that the two heroes… Brandybuck and Took, and this Gamgee fellow from up Hobbiton way… insisted quite stoutly that the Baggins chap was the real hero, but no one believed them. She said that the whole Baggins family is said to be quite mad. And everyone knows, my dear, that a mad person can’t travel to foreign parts and save the world from shadow. ‘Tis only a tale meant for children… not to be taken as truth.”_
> 
> _Be on your guard against false stories and those that tell them!_
> 
> _Your cousin,  
>  Marigold Grubb_

_  
_

_“_ False stories, indeed,” Dangar muttered. He added this letter to a nearby chest that held most of the items he had found in his long search. “I tell false stories too,” he said wretchedly. “I tell them every time I look into Rory’s eyes.”

As he walked home that night, his mind was constantly drawn to thoughts of Rory’s upcoming engagement. He wondered how he would find the strength to be present at the party. Maybe I could tell him I’m ill, he thought miserably. Then I could stay home and not have to watch it happen. “More false stories,” he said heavily.

As he turned east down the Bywater road he drew in a deep breath. The Yuletide nip in the air reminded Dangar of snow. “That won’t help my flowers,” he muttered. “’Tis hard enough on them as it is.”

“Good evenin’, sir,” a low voice murmured close at hand.

Dangar nearly jumped out of his skin. Preoccupied with his own thoughts, he hadn’t noticed the two hobbits that now stood quietly beside him on the Bywater path.

“Your pardon, good sirs,” he stammered, bowing politely. “Forgive me. I was deep in thought and did not see you there.”

“And we beg your pardon,” said the smaller of the two hobbits, bowing in return. “We did not mean to startle you.”

Dangar couldn’t identify their voices and they were both hooded and cloaked making it impossible to recognize them. “Do I know you?” he asked hesitantly.

“No,” said the larger hobbit. “We’re strangers traveling to Michel Delving from…” he hesitated…

“… from Frogmorton,” finished the other.

Dangar took a breath and tried to gather his wits. The smaller hobbit had a clear, fine voice with a cultured accent that Dangar did not recognize. The other spoke more roughly and his voice seemed oddly familiar.

“’Tis late for travelers to be out wandering,” he said conversationally.

They seemed to draw closer together. “We’ve traveled a long way,” the smaller hobbit admitted quietly.

Before he even had time to ponder the wisdom of such an invitation, Dangar bowed low and blurted: “Would you care to stop at my hobbit-hole for tea before going on to the inn? ‘Tis close at hand.”

“That would be lovely,” the larger hobbit told him. “My friend here is very tired.”

“I’m fine,” the smaller hobbit said warmly, laying his hand on the arm of the other.

“Still,” said the larger hobbit with gruff affection, “a cup of tea would do you no harm.”

Dangar led them past the beech trees to his small hobbit-hole and opened the door. The larger hobbit hesitated before entering and reached out to carefully finger a leaf of Dangar’s ivy. “This plant seems sickly,” he said softly.

“Yes,” Dangar said in a choked voice, quickly ushering them in.

The larger hobbit glanced once again at the ivy, then closed the door and followed Dangar into his study. He turned to the smaller hobbit and took his cloak before removing his own, then he returned to the hallway and hung their cloaks on hooks.

As he fussed at his fire, Dangar tried not to glance at his guests although he was immensely curious. The larger hobbit had returned to the study and was bending solicitously over his friend. “Do you want a blanket ‘til the fire is stronger?”

“No, thank you. I’m warm enough.” They smiled at each other, and as Dangar rose to fill the kettle he saw the larger hobbit touch the other’s hair gently.

While they waited for the water to boil, Dangar studied his guests. The smaller hobbit was slender and possessed of an almost wistful beauty. He appeared young, but his eyes held an intelligence and wisdom far beyond what one would expect from youth. The larger hobbit sat quietly, his hand resting on his friend’s arm. He had a round face and kindly eyes, and seemed to exude both strength and a quiet compassion. For a long time no one spoke.

“May I ask your names, good sirs?” Dangar asked at last.

“What is ailing your garden?” the larger hobbit interrupted. “And may I ask what remedies you have tried?”

Dangar turned to him, startled. “I don’t know what’s wrong!” he said unhappily. “I’ve tried everything! Teas, compost, and this…” He handed him the bottle of Azaelia’s potion, “… all to no avail. I’m frightfully worried and don’t know what to do!”

“My name is Bingo Proudtoes,” the smaller hobbit said softly in answer to Dangar’s question, “and this is my friend Milo Bracegirdle.”

The larger hobbit, the one named Milo, examined Azaelia’s potion with obvious interest while Bingo sat quietly, looking at Dangar and smiling. There was something out of the ordinary about these two hobbits, Dangar decided. The one named Bingo had an elegant, almost mystical, quality about him. The sight of him filled Dangar with wonder, though he could think of no earthly reason for such a feeling. Bingo carried himself with a grace and dignity that seemed to flow from him like an inner light. Dangar had heard stories about Elves. He knew that none of that ancient people now lived in Middle-earth, but if Bingo were not so obviously a hobbit, Dangar would have been sure he was looking upon Elven-kind.

Milo, if possible, seemed even stranger. Everything about him seemed to reflect a big-hearted and generous nature, and he was obviously devoted to Bingo. Yet Dangar was convinced that this hobbit could be a dangerous fellow if provoked… and certainly would be dangerous if Bingo were in any way threatened. He was a sturdy hobbit, especially when compared to Bingo’s slight frame, yet his touch when he fingered Dangar’s ivy had been thoughtful and tender. He projected an earnestness and goodness of spirit that Dangar found extremely comforting.

Now he smiled and handed the bottle of potion back to Dangar. “’Tis a good potion.”

“It hasn’t seemed to help much,” Dangar said sadly. “I fear nothing will.”

“Your garden would be in much worse condition without it, I’ll warrant,” Milo said mildly.

“Then I shall continue to use it,” Dangar assured him.

Milo nodded slowly.

“Are you distressed because your flowers are ill?” Bingo asked in a warm voice. “As we approached, we could see you were upset.”

Dangar felt misery seep through his veins, stifling him, stilling his voice, and bringing an almost unbearable ache to his throat. So much had happened lately which threatened to break his heart that he didn’t know if he could ever give voice to it... especially to someone he didn’t know.

“I know we’re strangers to you,” Bingo said quietly. “But believe me… we know what it means to feel heartbreak and pain. We’ve felt it too. We understand, Dangar.”

Dangar looked up at them. They sat together on the settee, openly holding hands. Their eyes gazed upon him warmly… but above all, with a depth of understanding that Dangar had never seen or felt before.

“Who are you?” he asked suddenly. “How do you know my name?”

“We told you who we are,” Milo said, smiling gently. His hazel eyes seemed to glow with pure joy, and Dangar knew without being told that the source of that joy was the one whose hand was clasped tightly in his own. “And we were told in Bywater that a hobbit named Dangar lived in the hobbit-hole near the grove of beech trees.”

“Is it your flowers' illness that has upset you, Dangar?” Bingo asked again.

“’Tis many things,” Dangar said slowly. “’Tis my flowers, which are my only real friends. ‘Tis Rory… who thinks he is my friend, but who doesn’t really know me.” He swallowed hard and dashed a tear from his cheek. “’Tis a story about hobbits from the long ago past who saved us all from a great evil.” He hesitated, his voice thick with tears. “A story no one cares about or believes but me.”

“We care, Dangar,” Milo said in a firm voice.

“Thank you.” Dangar said, gratefully. “But you don’t know anything about the story.”

“We know many stories,” Bingo remarked, and then nodded toward the fire. “Your kettle is boiling.”

“I’ll get it,” Milo said, rising. “Sit, Dangar. Sit and talk with Bingo. ‘Tis long since we’ve been able to chat with such a fine gentlehobbit. I have a special tea in my bag that you may relish. I’ve carried it far.”

Bingo smiled and released his hand.

“I shan’t be long,” Milo said softly.

Once Milo had disappeared into the kitchen, Dangar turned to Bingo. “Forgive me, sir, if this seems an improper question. I’m beside myself with confusion and don’t quite know what’s right or what’s wrong anymore. Is Milo your - I mean… are you and Milo…” he stopped suddenly, at a complete loss for words.

“Milo is my friend and my love,” Bingo said simply. “When I stood alone in utter darkness - when all hope had abandoned me - he was my hope and my rescuer. Without him... I am incomplete.”

Dangar nodded. “I wish - I mean I feel…” he sighed. “I envy you, Mr. Bingo. There is someone who I -,” he hesitated, looking up at Bingo shyly then haltingly continued, encouraged by Bingo’s expression of kind acceptance, “- someone who I love but who doesn’t know I feel this way.”

“Dangar, please don’t be afraid to live out your own truth. If there is someone in your life whom you love, don’t be afraid to share your heart. You don’t know what situations you may be faced with in life. You don’t know what separations may be forced upon you by circumstances.” Bingo’s face went pale then he drew in a deep breath. “Don’t treat love lightly, Dangar,” he murmured in a low voice. “Don’t walk away from love because you’re afraid.”

Milo returned from the kitchen carrying a tray laden with three cups of tea, a pitcher of cream, and a jar of honey. He gave Bingo a worried glance as he sat the tray on a table and was rewarded with a small smile.

“All’s well,” Bingo said quietly, patting the settee. “Come sit beside me and pour us a cup of your fine tea.”

Milo’s tea was unlike any that Dangar had ever tasted. It was dark, with a rich, mellow flavor that seemed to soothe his spirit and quiet his thoughts.

“Your tea is excellent, good sir,” he told Milo. “I thank you for it.”

“I shall leave what’s left with you when we leave, Dangar. ‘Tis not common in these parts and I can always get more when we return home.”

“Where is your home?” Dangar asked.

The two hobbits smiled at each other, then turned back to Dangar. “Far away,” Bingo told him. “In a place you’ve never heard of, I’m sure.”

“You don’t live in the Shire?” Dangar asked in surprise.

“Not –,” Milo began, and then hesitated. “Not anymore.”

“Have you ever heard tell of a Hobbit called Frodo Baggins?” Dangar blurted out.

He had no earthly idea why this question suddenly leapt from his throat other than his absolute conviction that these two strangers somehow perceived his every thought whether he voiced it or not. He was fearful that they might be offended, especially if Lothagar was right that the name Baggins did not have a good reputation in the Shire. And yet… somehow he could not believe that these two hobbits could think poorly of someone simply because of rumors.

For a moment their eyes met in a knowing gaze and to Dangar’s surprise they smiled at each other in what appeared to be great happiness.

“Aye, we’ve heard of him,” Bingo replied softly. “His name is spoken of in stories that are lost in time.”

“They say the deeds he did are but tall tales for children and not to be believed,” Dangar said breathlessly.

“Snakes and adders!” Milo growled, obviously agitated.

But Bingo laughed softly and laid his hand on Milo’s arm. “Hush,” he said quietly. “”Tis no matter.”

Milo muttered something unintelligible that caused Bingo to laugh merrily. “Tall tales, we’ve found, Dangar, are oft the best tales.”

“Then the stories told of him are true?” Dangar asked eagerly. “For so long I’ve sought for ways to prove that he lived and truly did defeat a great evil as the old legends say. I’ve been told again and again that my search is folly and to let it go. But ‘tis wrong that a hero be forgotten. Someone should remember him and honor him.” He sighed sadly. “For all of my searching I’ve found naught but scraps of text and a few old letters.” He rose and walked to his small desk. Opening a drawer, he took out the letter written by Samwise Gamgee. “Like this one,” Dangar said, offering the missive to Milo who took it with a trembling hand.

As Dangar watched, the two hobbits huddled close together with their heads nearly touching reading the letter in complete silence. After a long time Bingo lifted his head and gently caressed Milo’s cheek. “I’m sorry,” Dangar heard him whisper, his voice hoarse with tears.

Milo made no reply, but shook his head and dashed away his own tears with the back of his hand. Then he turned to Dangar and returned the letter into his keeping. “If proof is what you seek, Dangar,” Milo told him in a very soft voice, “then I’m sorry for we’ve none to give you. All we can tell you is that we believe Frodo Baggins lived and that the stories told of him are true. He was a hero, Dangar. The greatest of his age. He saved the Shire. He sacrificed all that was dear to him to save Middle-earth from the evil which would surely have defeated it.” He recaptured Bingo’s hand in his and for a moment they once again looked into each other’s eyes.

Then Bingo turned to Dangar. “If the belief of two wandering hobbits has any meaning for you,” Bingo said, smiling his gentle smile, “then be comforted. He had a task set before him that was beyond the strength of any hobbit. Thankfully, he also had a companion who walked by his side and whose strength and love helped him succeed where otherwise he would have utterly failed.”

Milo shook his head and blushed, then rose with Bingo’s hand still clasped in his. “We must go, Dangar. ‘Tis still a long walk to the inn and it’s now full dark.”

Flustered and confused, Dangar rose from his chair and held his hands out entreatingly. “Please,” he implored them. “Please stay. I’ve plenty of room. You can take my bed and I’ll sleep out here on the settee. I sleep here many a night when I nod off before the fire. Please stay.”

The two hobbits murmured together for a moment then Milo turned to him with a smile. “We’ll be your guests, Dangar, and we thank you for your generous offer.”

“Yes,” Bingo added. “Thank you so much, Dangar. Both for your hospitality and for your faithful hobbit heart which has greatly cheered us.”

Dangar made sure that the bed was freshly made for his guests, then bid them goodnight and went back to his living room. He sat for a time, staring into the fire, pondering the things he had heard that night from the two strange visitors. But eventually Milo’s tea began to seep through his veins like a mug of strong ale, and he curled up on the settee and fell fast asleep. The last thought he remembered having before drifting off was: They believed me!

When he awoke the next morning, his guests were gone. He found the rest of Milo’s tea on his kitchen counter, stored neatly in a small, unadorned tin. He flew to his front door and peered out into the morning light, hoping against hope that he would see them close at hand, but he saw nothing except the sun rising over the hills in the East.

He turned to re-enter his hobbit-hole… then stopped abruptly as his eyes fell on the ivy that twined its way up the side of his hole. “Bless me!” he whispered in shocked bewilderment, reaching out to gently caress the leaves. “My ivy!! ‘Tis well again!”

He turned quickly and fell to his knees beside the other plants in his garden, and his face grew radiant with delight when he saw that they, too, were vastly improved. The blight had receded and left green, healthy leaves in its wake.

“Bless me,” he said again, his voice choked with tears. “It was them! I know it was them!”

He rose to his feet and dashed back into his hobbit-hole, eager to dress. He was determined to find them… to thank them. To convince them to stay! He had so many questions! He must not let them go!

As he moved toward his bedroom, his eyes fell on two notes lying on the table next to his settee and he quickly opened the first:

> _Good morning, Dangar._
> 
> _Written on this paper is a recipe that will cure the blight that turned your garden sickly. I’ve added an ingredient or two to Mistress Bolger’s potion and dosed your flowers and ivy. They should be recovering nicely. Please share this recipe with Mistress Bolger and any who may have need of it. ‘Tis an old recipe from the pen of a simple Hobbiton gardener, but it will serve to heal the plants that you love._
> 
> _I am most pleased to know that you live in this hobbit-hole beneath the beech trees that I planted so very long ago._
> 
> _Thank you for your kindness, Dangar. And thank you for believing._
> 
> _S. Gamgee_

 

Dangar burst into tears and sank to the floor. After a moment he opened the second note.

It said:

> My dear Dangar,
> 
> Sam and I have gone. We shan’t return to the Shire. We visited during this Yule season with many questions in our hearts, and you answered them all last night. Some answers were as sweet as Shire wine and filled us with great joy. Others left the taste of bittersweet sadness. But that is the way of things, Dangar. There is always bitter with the sweet.
> 
> I was told, long ago, that I was meant to undertake the quest which is now only remembered by those few who care enough to seek out the truth. I believe this is true. And now I also believe that Sam and I were meant to meet you, Dangar. You’re part of our story now. And as you refuse to let the Shire forget us, we will never forget you.
> 
> One last thing I beg of you. Do not let your love leave your life without speaking the truth of your heart to him. Tell him how you feel, Dangar.
> 
> Some things are worth any risk you may have to take. Believe me… I know.
> 
> With all affection, your long-lost cousin,  
>  F. Baggins – who once called himself ‘Underhill’
> 
>  

For a long time Dangar sat on the floor of his small hobbit-hole and wept, clutching both notes in his hand. “They’ve gone,” he whispered finally, his voice filled with sorrow. “They’ve gone and they won’t ever come back again.”

Were it not for the notes and the sight of his newly restored garden, Dangar would have feared he was falling victim to the oddness that had always troubled his family. But even worse, he would have thought that his encounter with the two wanderers was only a dream. But he held their notes in his hand. The recovery of his beloved plants could not be denied. This was not a story from the past. This was not a tall tale for children. This was real.

It was now Yule-eve, and tomorrow night Rory’s engagement would be announced to the entire populace. Dangar wiped his eyes and rose to his feet. Carefully he placed the two notes in his desk drawer next to Sam’s letter and went to his bedroom to dress. There was something he had to do, and time was quickly running out.

He was dreadfully frightened as he walked the familiar path to Hobbiton. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say when he reached Rory’s door and his heart thumped hard in his chest. Were they frightened when they faced the bitter darkness? he wondered. I expect they were. And I know from Sam’s letter that they were forced to be apart for many long years.

In his mind’s eye, Dangar could see the two hobbits who had entered his life last night and the profound love that flowed between them. He could not imagine what it would have been like for them to be separated. They seemed as much a part of each other as the stars are part of the nighttime sky. Their pain must have been nearly unendurable.

“They did what they had to do even though they were afraid,” he murmured aloud, not caring who might hear him. “They endured and they hoped and their hope was rewarded. I will honor them the only way I know how. I won’t let him go without telling him how I feel.”

As he walked through Hobbiton village, the sights and smells of Yule were everywhere. Each door was wreathed in pine boughs as were the market stalls in the Hobbiton Town Square. The town was steeped in the Yule-time smells that always thrilled Dangar’s heart. Even at this early hour, the smell of baking cookies and holiday breads filled the air mingled with the scent of evergreen and spices from the Yule-logs.

Dangar inhaled deeply as he made his way northward toward Bagshot Row. “’Tis good to be a hobbit living in Hobbiton at Yule,” he said. “There is no other season that makes my heart feel quite so glad.”

He knew that he walked toward an encounter that could very well break his heart. But he also knew that even if this were the outcome, he would survive and be happy. Yule will always come again, Dangar thought as he turned left and began to walk up the Row toward Rory’s hobbit-hole. I shan’t ever give up hope.

He paused for a moment in front of the door, drew in a deep breath, gathered his courage… then knocked.

After a moment Rory slowly opened the door. “Dangar?” he said sleepily. “Why are you here at this hour? Is something amiss?”

Dangar smiled. Rory was half hidden behind Number Three’s yellow door, peeping out at him with a worried frown.

“All’s well, Rory,” Dangar assured him. “But ‘tis quite important that I speak with you.”

Rory stepped back and ushered Dangar into his foyer. He was wearing a white nightshirt and his sandy hair was sleep-tousled. In Dangar’s eyes he had never looked more handsome… or more lovable.

“Come into the kitchen,” Rory said, turning to walk down the long central hallway. “I need tea and a cake or two.”

Dangar followed him, his heart still fluttering in his chest. He had to struggle to control his breathing and hoped with all his heart that he could manage to say what he wanted to say. His mind turned again and again to Frodo and Sam, letting the thought of their love and courage fill him with strength.

He settled into a kitchen chair as Rory put on the kettle and laid out a few cakes. “Odd to see you this early,” Rory commented as he seated himself at the table across from Dangar. “Usually you’re at the Annex by now.”

The Annex! Dangar thought with a start. I didn’t open it on time this morning! Then he smiled at his friend. “Today there is something more important on my mind.”

“More important than your beloved books and papers and artifacts from the past?” Rory said, smiling in return.

“Yes. More important than any of that.”

“What is it?”

Dangar drew in another deep breath, then slowly reached across the table and took Rory’s two hands in his. “I need to talk about me, Rory. And about how I feel… toward you.”

Rory said nothing, but did not resist when Dangar took his hands. In fact, he clasped them tightly in his own as he looked into his friend’s eyes.

“I -,” Dangar began… then hesitated. Suddenly he heard the voice of Frodo Baggins, unsung hero of the Shire: “Don’t treat love lightly, Dangar. Don’t walk away from love because you’re afraid.”

“I love you, Rory,” Dangar said, his voice little more than a whisper. “I’ve loved you for many a long year now, though I’ve felt dreadfully afraid to tell you so. I feared you would hate me. But now I know I have to speak. I hope you are not offended or angry with me.”

Rory stared silently into Dangar’s eyes for a long moment, and then he spoke in a low, soft voice. “Dangar, I am neither offended nor angry. I’ve tried for years to show you that I felt the same way, but each time I did, you seemed to pull away from me. I thought you wanted naught from me but friendship.”

“I was afraid!” Dangar cried, grasping Rory’s hands even more tightly. “I didn’t want you to see how I felt for fear of losing you.”

A slow, sweet smile spread over Rory’s face. “Well now, my dearest hobbit. It seems that we’ve both been fools who let fear lead us away from our heart’s true desire.”

“I’m sorry, Rory,” Dangar stammered, his voice quaking with emotion. “I never dreamt that you – I mean you’re so – so handsome and all! And the lasses love you so much! I never thought that you could love someone like – like me.”

“Like you?” Rory said, lifting Dangar’s hands to his lips. “I’ve never known anyone more deserving of love than you, Dangar.”

“But – but, Rory, your engagement!” Dangar cried in alarm, suddenly remembering. “’Tis to be announced tonight at the Yule celebration.”

“No,” Rory said softly. “It’s not.”

“But -,” Dangar began.

“I spoke to my Mam yesterday and to Flora as well. There’s to be no engagement. I couldn’t bear it, Dangar. Flora is a fine hobbit lass, but that is not where my heart longs to be.”

He stood and went to Dangar, pulling him to his feet. “I love a sweet, quiet, gentle little hobbit who adores Shire history and is never happier than when he’s tending his beloved garden.”

Breathless, Dangar stared into Rory’s eyes, scarcely believing what he was hearing. “They did this,” he whispered. “They made this happen.”

“Who did,” Rory exclaimed, laughing softly. “What are you talking about, my dearest Dangar?”

Dangar shook his head. “’Tis not important now,” he murmured, unable to think any sensible thought as Rory took him gently in his arms and kissed his cheek.

He shyly wrapped his arms around Rory’s neck, his face pressed against the white nightshirt. I know now what it takes to be a real hero, he thought as he felt Rory’s arms tighten about him, pulling him close. It doesn’t mean that you don’t feel afraid. It means feeling afraid, but still moving ever forward. It means not letting fear guide you… but being led by love alone.

“You’re wrong about one thing, Rory,” Dangar murmured.

“And what is that?” Rory asked, smiling his crooked smile as he ran his fingers through Dangar’s dark locks.

“There is one thing that makes me happier than tending my garden.”

“And what would that be?” Rory whispered, his lips moving ever closer to Dangar’s.

“This,” Dangar said softly. “This.”

Rory kissed him tenderly, and then touched his cheek with gentle fingers, gazing at him with a kind of wonder. “You’re my hero, Dangar. You always have been. Not for courage, or deeds like those they tell of in the ancient tales – but for your good and loving heart. And because you never lose faith in the things or the people you believe in.”

Dangar embraced him, trembling all over. “Thank you,” he whispered, “Oh, thank you so much!” And Rory never knew that Dangar’s words weren’t meant for him alone.

“You’re most welcome, I’m sure,” Rory laughed.

“Happy Yule, my very dear Rory,” murmured Dangar, so filled with joy that he thought his heart would burst.

“Happy Yule indeed, my dearest Dangar,” Rory replied. “’Tis but the first of many that we’ll celebrate… together.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Epilogue:

Dangar and Rory spent many long and happy years together. For a time after that wondrous Yule season when they first spoke of their love for each other, there were Shire hobbits who were outraged by the sight of them. But in the end the citizens of Hobbiton grew accustomed to seeing them tend their garden, or walk through the market place hand in hand, talking and laughing merrily… obviously deeply in love.

Eventually even Lothagar gave his blessing to their union and Dangar was unconditionally welcomed into the highborn Gardener family. He never stopped searching for relics from Hobbiton’s past or for clues about its ancient heroes. In due course, Mister Baridoc Proudfoot retired, and Dangar was named Chief Curator of the Hobbiton Annex Mathom House. After a time he wrote a book about Shire history which included a lovingly written chapter recounting the deeds of the ancient hero, Frodo Baggins and his steadfast love, Samwise.

And as the years slowly passed, Dangar and Rory became two of Hobbiton’s most respected and well-loved residents. It was hard now to remember a time when they had seemed odd or in any way different… except for one thing which still left the residents of Hobbiton feeling somewhat bemused.

On each Yule-eve for as long as they lived, Rory and Dangar walked slowly to the statue that commemorated the heroes of Bywater and each lifted a glass in silent, loving homage.


End file.
